


Measurements

by taketheblanket



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Eating Disorder, Ficlet, M/M, Perhaps the start of something special, Pre-Slash, Prompto has a Crush, but maybe Ignis does too, pre-game, sweet feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 05:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taketheblanket/pseuds/taketheblanket
Summary: Ignis takes Prompto's measurements for his fatigues.





	Measurements

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by @Vee_Luma on twitter with "taking measurements." A gift for @mooglefestival.

The gun kicks in his hands but he is ready for it. The bullet pierces the last strip of nylon that hold the bottom half of the flag to the top and it flutters to the floor of the range. Prompto lowers his pistol, his eyes tracing the jagged edge of the target where he had perforated the material in a horizontal line, bisecting the gentle human silhouette through the neck. 

“You’ve improved.” 

Ignis’ voice cracks into his headphones between two bursts of static. He always leaves his radio open and he’s gotten used to the occasional chatter of shooters as they move about the range, but his heart still jumps in his chest at the surprise of Ignis’ voice in his ear. He hadn’t realized he was being watched. 

He turns around and spots Ignis on the other side of the glass. He waves and holsters his gun. 

“Prompto,” Ignis addresses him when he enters the box. “Before you leave today, I need you to write down your measurements.” 

“My… measurements?” Prompto says. 

“The tailor has begun work on our Crownsguard Fatigues.” 

“I… don’t know my measurements,” Prompto says, but _he used to._

“I can take them for you,” Ignis suggests, and Prompto watches him slide a roll of measuring tape from his pocket, flip to a blank page in the small leather notebook he has with him at all times. 

Prompto sighs, “okay.” 

They go to the the locker room for a little privacy. There is a mirror, but Prompto faces the wall. Ignis comes behind him, stretching the tape across the breadth of his shoulders, his knuckles pressed against him softly where he holds the measure steady. 

“Forty-two,” Ignis says to himself. 

He brings the tape to the slope of his neck and then over his shoulders and down to his elbows. He has to stand still for him, which goes against his nature, so he closes his eyes and just focuses on the sensation of Ignis’ hands skating over his body as he maps him out. 

He murmurs, “twenty-eight, seventeen, thirty-six,” and pauses to jot them down in his notebook. 

When Ignis returns to him, he brings the tape around Prompto’s neck so delicately that he can hardly feel it as it wraps around his throat. 

“Hey Iggy,” Prompto says, feeling his words snug up against the tape, Ignis’ hands still holding the ribbon at the back of his neck. “Can you not say the numbers aloud?” 

Ignis drops the tape and it slithers over Prompto’s shoulder as he pulls it away. 

“Fair enough,” Ignis says. 

With his hands on Prompto’s waist, Ignis rotates the smaller man until he is facing him. His hands are big and Ignis is tall and he is standing so close to him that Prompto begins to feel shamefully alert. There are only three things for Prompto to look at: the mirror behind Ignis, Ignis’ hands slipping the tape around his middle or Ignis’ face, his eyes cast downward on his task. Despite the knowledge that he should stamp down his inappropriate crush on his best friend’s tactical advisor, Prompto chooses his face. 

Ignis is the kind of man Prompto can’t help but notice every time he walks in the room. He is handsome and striking and composed and once his training at the Citadel began, they crossed paths even more frequently, and Prompto began to learn that Ignis was also funny and charming and smelled like aftershave and he can’t help but feel like things are spiraling out of control mere weeks before the four of them are going to be crammed into a car together.

Prompto knows he’s not the kind of person someone like Ignis would be interested in, but it’s fun to pretend for a few moments, looking up at his face while Ignis’ hands trail down the sides of his ribcage after measuring his chest to sink lower, wrap the tape around his hips and tug him a half inch closer, Ignis’ fingers’ tracing the outline of his gun beneath his clothes. 

The spell breaks a moment later. 

“Have you been weighing yourself?” Ignis asks. 

His tone is conversational, but the words acknowledge something Prompto has never said aloud to _anyone_. His eyes practically pop out of his head before he snaps them shut, no longer able to look up at Ignis’ thoughtful face, so close to his, studying his body. Prompto suddenly feels short of breath, but Ignis’ hands continue to move methodically over him, gently wrapping him in ribbon as he takes his measurements. Despite the purpose behind the task, something about his hands comfort him enough to speak on the embarrassing subject.

“Yes,” he says. “I weigh myself everyday.” 

Even with his eyes shut, Prompto can read Ignis’ movements. The air around him grows cold as Ignis sinks to his knees in front of Prompto, aligning the tape at his knee, his long fingers wrapping entirely around his ankle for a single moment before pulling away once more. 

After a few more measurements, Ignis speaks. 

“You’ve dedicated yourself to a rather intensive training regimen the past two months,” he says. “Your shooting has certainly improved. Your body should be catching up to the increase in exercise, by now.” 

Ignis hands come to lay on Prompto’s thighs, just above his knee. Prompto doesn’t feel the tape. Ignis squeezes him there gently, pressing the pads of his fingers to dip his skin in investigation.

“Muscle,” he says, “weighs more than fat.” 

Prompto opens his eyes to find Ignis watching him from his knees, the notebook shut. Ignis’ hands fall away when their eyes meet. He gathers his notebook and pen from the floor. 

“I know,” Prompto says. 

“Numbers are tricky little things, aren’t they?” Ignis muses, rising back to his full height.

He stands a normal distance away, and Prompto thinks that he could tolerate another measuring if it meant Ignis would run his hands all over him like that again. Ignis studies him with a thoughtful expression while he rolls the measuring tape back into a tight wheel and drops it in his pocket. Prompto feels like he’s burning beneath his eyes. 

“If you keep gaining muscle, I may need to take those measurements again,” he says, echoing Prompto’s thoughts. 

His cheeks burn red at the feeling of being caught in an inappropriate thought. He swallows. 

“Can I give you a ride home?” Ignis asks. 

“I was going to walk to Noct’s,” Prompto tells him, hiding his flushed face from Ignis as he lifts his backpack from the floor. 

“Then we’re headed the same way.” 

“I don’t want to inconvenience you!” Prompto says.

“Your company is not an inconvenience,” he is assured. “You can afford to sacrifice the exercise.”

Prompto turns to look at him again and he watches his eyes flit down the length of his body before returning to his face. Prompto chews on the inside of his lip, shifting his backpack on his shoulder. 

“Okay,” he agrees. 

Ignis smiles softly before wheeling around and heading for the exit. Prompto isn’t read for the way his smile makes his heart kick in his chest. Ignis holds the door open for him and Prompto has to pass by him closely as he moves through. 

“Before we are graced with the Prince’s input,” Ignis begins. “What do you feel like for dinner?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I am @taketheblanket on twitter.


End file.
